


i bet you kiss your knuckles right before they touch my cheek

by raggedypond



Category: Hunger Games (2012) RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Character Death, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5374706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raggedypond/pseuds/raggedypond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis are chosen as tributes in the Hunger Games. What begins as an uncertain allyship grows into a friendship and eventually into a passionate love affair. But the arena is no place for falling in love. Title from Halsey's Trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i bet you kiss your knuckles right before they touch my cheek

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for doing this to y'all.

I believe there is no way to describe it, the feeling that settles in the deepest pit of your stomach in the spare second after you hear your name. Perhaps realization comes first, like a blunt knife in the gut, when it sinks in that you have one twenty-fourth of a chance to survive. Then you step forward and the crowd splits precisely in two, eyes grim, glued to the ground because no one really dares look at you. Dead man walking. Your breath catches, of course, and you struggle to force your lungs and your heart to work right, as you force your fists not to clench, your eyes not to water. You feel every camera, following you closely: will you shake violently? Will you cry? Will sweat trickle down your forehead, your cheekbones, your jaw? Will you stand your ground? Once you’ve managed to remain composed, once you’ve succeeded to present yourself as virtually unmoved at the almost certain prospect of death, in comes the rage. It is inevitable not to feel it swipe you off, a whirl of maddening anger – not why me, in particular, but why anyone, why does this have to happen at all? – aimed at the Capitol, a sudden surge of insurgence running through your veins as you cling on to your humanity. And before you know it, you’re standing there, up on that stage, lights on you, the famished, impoverished people of your district at your feet, the sweaty palm of the girl you’ll have to kill if you want to come back home - her, as well as twenty-two other innocent children – fit uncomfortably in yours. It happens in the blink of an eye, in the few seconds necessary for you to breathe in, breathe out, and it takes you everything you are not to look at your family, your sisters huddled together, pools of tears swimming in their eyes, because if you do, you will break down, then and there, and you’re dead meat, and you’re a weakling, a target for the twenty-three other murderers-to-be. The palm of your mentor lies heavy on your shoulder, like the talons of a hawk, and the weight of the world is suddenly on you. It’s all too bright: the sun, the cameras flashing, the screens; the sounds, even, the anthem, the crowds cheering in a hollow, pretend-voice, somebody wailing somewhere, a mother, a lover, a friend, seem blindingly bright, surreal. And it’s not happening to you, after all, is it, because the moment they read your name out loud, you cease to be you. You become bait, and you become a media star, and you become a murderer, but you’re no longer you. You’re about to hunt or be hunted, kill or be killed, and it requires you to leave behind who you are, to wash away the years – 18 in my case – of pretending to be a human being and finally become the monster they have always wanted you to be.

_To kill_ , you think as the elevator in the Justice Building, moaning and groaning, slowly takes you to your slaughter, _or not to kill_. Two peacemakers, on both your sides, armed, ready to take you down, decapitate you, should you try to run – but not kill you, no, that’s for the other kids who will chase you down, knives and all, and try to skin you alive, live on TV, while your family watches, confined to their torn-up couch, bony hands squeezed together.

The goodbyes follow, rushed and hushed, cheeks pressed, lips on foreheads, five tiny girls hanging on to you, silent, somber, not crying – for your sake, surely, lips tight, eyes dark, brows furrowed. Grief becomes animate, transcends from metaphysical to physical, a thick veil that engulfs you, that lies heavy, burning, that fills the air – what can be said that can possibly make things better? What can be done? And then of course the ultimate question – do you let your family see you die a bloody violent death, or do you let your family see your commit bloody violent murder? Do you never come home, or do you return, wrapping your blood-stained arms around them? I hold them all, press them close to my heart, plant small kisses on the tops of their heads and see them – never wanting for anything ever again, their cheeks never hollow with hunger, their fingers never blue with cold, and resolve to come back. To keep your family warm and well-fed, you sell your humanity, you sentence other families to disconsolate, empty existence, to burying their beloved children. Your classmate, blonde and rosy-cheeked, with her hair always braided, has to die. They all have to die.

You get on that train and your heart sinks. You don’t become a ruthless killer the moment the knife sinks into soft, warm flesh. You become a ruthless killer the moment you decide you can commit cold-blooded murder without hesitation. I watch as my home slowly recedes into the darkness, as it slowly disappears, the train carrying me to my ultimate downfall. Louis Tomlinson, of District Three, a murderer.


End file.
